


Arya Lannister, Lady of the Rock

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), BAMF Arya Stark, F/M, Female Friendships, Marriage Proposal, Marriage of Convenience, Murder, Older Man/Younger Woman, Politics, Scheming, Sex, Sisterhood, Violence, family dramas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Tywin Lannister discovers the real identity of his cupbearer at Harranhal. His reaction is to take her prisoner and drag her back to Kings Landing, full of visions of her value as a hostage and full of plans to have her married off as soon as possible to secure her once and for all.But with Arya proving harder to handle than Tywin anticipated and far brighter than he imagined, she poses him a problem - if she's to be married, it must be to a man capable of both using and containing the wolf.Who better than the Great Lion to contain the Wild Wolf?
Relationships: Tywin Lannister/Arya Stark
Comments: 122
Kudos: 556





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Had this one hanging around for a fair while! 
> 
> Thought I'd dust it off and start publishing it. I know I have like a billion unfinished fics but I'm getting those updated too soon over the coming days.
> 
> I hope this meets with some approval at least! Please read, review, leave constructive criticism :)

"Of course, you know who she is?" Baelish's malevolent voice says, filtering through Tywin's thoughts.

"Who who is?" he asks, not looking up from his papers - although there are only so many _she's_ Baelish could mean.

"Your cupbearer. The pretty little girl here amongst the soldiers and monsters." Tywin inches up a disbelieving brow at that. Pretty?

"Do enlighten me," he says, failing to keep the boredom out of his voice. "Some Karstark or Manderly bastard, I suppose, keeping it quiet given her father's throwing his lot in with traitors. Fascinating."

"Not quite," Baelish says, smirking now. "Come, Lord Lannister. You grow slower, evidentially. You mean to tell me you see no resemblance at all - not to another Northern girl who once sat in these halls?"

"If you have nothing to say to me but riddles, Baelish, you can get out," Tywin answers.

"Your cupbearer is Arya Stark," Baelish drawls. It's so ridiculous, it draws a smile from him, even gets him to look up from his papers.

"Arya Stark is dead," he says contemptuously. "Nobody has seen her since her father was arrested and she was a babe of, what, eleven? Twelve? She'd never have survived."

"Then a ghost is currently serving you wine," Baelish replies smoothly. "A ghost who looks a lot like her Aunt Lyanna."

"Rubbish," Tywin says forcefully. Baelish just smirks.

"Alright then, don't believe me. Why don't you just - ask her?"

  
Ask her.

  
Ask her. But that would be absolute rubbish. It'd be tantamount to thinking Baelish might be right. And he can't be, cannot possibly be because girls of twelve do not survive on their own in cities like King's Landing. And if they do survive - well, they do not survive for any good reasons. But, it was all three - no four, four years ago. The girl's small but could be about the right age, or thereabouts. No, no, this is ridiculous. Arya Stark's gone. If she had managed to survive somehow, if by some miracle she did survive on the streets of King's Landing, then she'll have been dragged into some hideous life in a brothel or a tavern. Men can pay good money for little girls.

  
But he cannot stop thinking and the next day he watches her closely. He barely remembers Lyanna Stark. Despite the chaos the girl had caused, he'd barely seen her as more as a blip on his map. Does the girl have the Stark look? She's dark and sallow-faced, certainly - but so are a lot of Northerners, it's hardly conclusive. He blames Baelish for putting the idea in his head to start with.

"Daughter of a stonemason," he remarks suddenly, apropos of nothing as he watches her move around his quarters. She gives him a strange look.

"Yes, my Lord."

"And a literate stonemason, is that right?" That's what you said?"

"Yes, my Lord." She's definitely looking at him oddly, grey eyes clouded with confusion - and wariness? The Stark's have grey eyes.

"Who taught him how to read?"

"I don't understand, my Lord."

"Your father. Who taught him how to read?" The tiniest of flickers on her face, showing increased alertness, the shuttering of her eyes. She's lying, but then Tywin's always known she's been lying about it.

"I don't know, my Lord. He never said."

"Do you want to know what I think?" he says.

"If it please you, my Lord," she answers, voice and manner entirely neutral.

"I think you're lying." She shrugs. Fair enough, there's not much of a response she can make to that he supposes. "It is my belief that you're the daughter of a nobleman." That gets a flicker, just the tiniest of flickers - a slight darkening of her face, the tiny movement of her fingers, as if she wants to make a fist of it.

"That's not true, my Lord."

"You're very well-spoken for the common daughter of a stonemason." That gets him another shrug. "Unless when we say daughter - do we mean that you were merely raised by stonemasons? Perhaps a stonemason's wife had an affair?"

"I wouldn't know anything about that, my Lord."

"No, I don't suppose you would. Where did you grow up?"

"Near Karhold, my Lord." Hesitation, just for a tiny second. Lie, he thinks instantly.

"Karhold? So you knew of the Karstarks?"

"Yes, my Lord." She's looking at him now like she thinks he's an idiot - but under that, there's cool calculation. He's seen it on Cersei's face enough to know it when he sees it.

"I'm going to give you one chance to tell me the truth," he says abruptly, tired of the games. "Are you Arya Stark?"

  
It gets a reaction alright. The pitcher she's been holding thunks to the floor as all the blood drains from her face. He's not in much better shape than she is. He'd never expected Baelish to be right. He beckons her forward, into the light, hooks fingers under her chin to force her face up.

  
The resemblance is suddenly so obvious. Her grey eyes are very stormy, very angry - very apprehensive. He drops his hand, stares down at her.

"Arya Stark," he says, laughs suddenly at the absolute absurdity. He turns, strides towards the window. When he looks back, she's edging towards the door. "Don't bother," he tells her. "You won't get far. This is a fortress, for all it's a ruin. You will not escape it."

"I escaped the Red Keep," she says, her voice steady.

"I'm curious as to how, I must admit. You were what, a babe of eleven?"

"Twelve," she answers sullenly.

"Meaning you're - fifteen? Or have you already seen your sixteenth nameday?"

"Sixteen," she responds, still calm. It seems that with her secret out, she's content for now to stay and talk. But he can see how she's absolutely tense, absolutely rigid. He knows that it means she's primed, absolutely ready to spring. She'll bolt if he pushes too hard. He moves calmly, without hurrying - and bolts the door. She watches him do it, but no part of her relaxes.

"How does a twelve year old girl survive for four years on her own?" She shrugs again.

"Dressing as a boy, trading pigeons for food. And it helps knowing how to use a sword."

"You can use a sword?" Tywin asks.

"Yes. But someone stole it from me."

"Your father taught you to use a sword?"

"No. Syrio Forel taught me how to use a sword, on my father's request." She names the former First Sword of Braavos like it means nothing, but there's a fire in her eyes when she speaks it.

"He knew I wasn't happy being a Lady, that I was never going to be a Lady. So he let me learn other things. Things to make me happy. Things that taught me to survive." Tywin gives her a long, cool look. She never wavers in her return of it, not even for a second. Tywin takes a seat, steeples his fingers while he considers her.

"What am I to do, then, with the younger Lady Stark?" he muses aloud, staring hard at her.

"Not call me Lady Stark," she fires back, draws a chuckle from him.

"But you are Lady Stark," he rejoins, smiling at her without any warmth. "That is, after all, your title." The glower she gives him could freeze fire.

"Not anymore," she answers, wandering over to his desk. She runs her fingers along the edge idly and he watches her almost warily. Everything tells him that nothing this girl does is unconsidered. "If there was any chance at all that I might possibly become a lady, it died the day your monster of a grandson killed my father. And anyway - my sister was always the Lady." Her grey eyes are hard steel. "How is my sister?" she asks, her voice silk over iron.

"Well, as far as I know." Arya nods her shorn brown head slowly.

"So - where do we go from here, my Lord?" she asks. "I am the missing piece of the Stark family. What do you plan to do with me?"

"I'm not entirely sure," he answers. "Beyond, of course, locking you up."


	2. Chapter 2

He locks her in his own chambers because having her dragged off to a cell will trigger gossip and speculation and he can do without it. He goes about his business - but his mind is working rapidly, as he considers what he is to do with Arya Stark.

  
The girl could prove valuable - but something about her tells Tywin she could also be the wild card that ruins everything. This is not another Sansa, fragile and malleable. This is another Lyanna, fiery and independent. He could marry her off - but to who? She's hardly marriage material in the state she's in now, with her hair shorn short and no suggestion of womanhood under the commoners clothes, even though at sixteen there should be something. And if he does find a Lord willing to marry her, then it would need to be someone capable of containing her. Assuming, of course, she wouldn't kill anyone who came near her. Something in the girl's eyes tells him she'd be capable of it.

  
When he does return to her, he has the beginnings of a plan worked out. He beckons her to stand in front of his desk.

"Now, I have some questions," he tells her, fixing her in his gaze. "I expect you to answer me honestly, do you hear?"

"I hear," she says, almost mockingly. He has to admire her spirit.

"Good. Have you flowered?" It brings a flush to her cheeks, but he gets a jerky nod. "When?"

"Two years ago," she says shortly.

"Good," he says again. "First and foremost, I need to keep you alive - and safe."

"I think I've managed fairly well on my own," she drawls slowly.

"I'll admit that," he responds. "But it's only because nobody has yet identified you. So, tell me - what's the plan, Lady Stark? Prior to your capture, where were you headed?"

"North," she answers. "I was travelling with a batch of recruits for the Night's Watch. The recruiter was going to drop me off at Winterfell. That won't be viable now, I suppose, given what happened."

"So you know about that?"

"I heard the stories," she says curtly. "That was enough. I suppose after that - I suppose Robb, perhaps, as he's doing rather well." She gives him a look that could be described as provocative on any other woman. "I heard he captured your son," she says sweetly. "Fancy my brother having Jaime Lannister as his bargaining chip. It makes your efforts seem rather weak in comparison. He has the Lannister heir - and you have the sword-fighting, breeches-wearing, disrespectful younger Lady Stark. Bit shit really."

"You have some value," Tywin says dismissively. "Marriage value, anyway." Her face goes stony.

"I'm not getting married," she says flatly. "Try again, Lannister."

"You'll get married if I tell you to," he responds.

"Hmm. You might be able to drag me as far as the altar, but you can't make me say the vows." She has a point.

"I could ensure -"

"Let me rephrase," she interrupts, her voice deadly. "Even if you manage to find a tool powerful enough to make me say wedding vows, I will castrate and then execute the first man who even tries to fuck me."

"I wouldn't have pegged you as the kind to fret over her maidenhead."

"I couldn't give less of a shit about my maidenhead, Lannister. Just my freedom."

  
She's vulgar, crude, swears like a soldier. Every line of her spells defiance, fearless determination. He admires it really. She's utterly ruthless.

"If I were to marry you off," he continues, for the time being ignoring the castration threats, "it would need to be to someone powerful. You could be a Lady of half the damned country."

"You seem to think that'll tempt me. Sansa was the one who always wanted that stuff. I think you know for yourself I'd make a terrible Lady."

"I do," he acknowledges. "However, if I let you go now, or even announce your identity - there are many others who would seek to use you for their own ends. The King, of course. The Dowager Queen. Courtiers."

"I'd like to see anyone try it," she answers sweetly. "Your thug of a grandson does not frighten me - but I already know he's afraid of me. By all means drag me back to Court in chains, Tywin. I'd love to see him again. I'd break him faster than a twig. And I have scores to settle with King Joffrey." She fixes Tywin with a coolly amused look. "Gods help him when you bring me within stabbing distance," she finishes. "And Gods help me if when we get back to the capital, I find out he's touched even a hair on my sister's head."

  
He'll have to take her back, but Gods above he doesn't want to. The damage she could do, the havoc she could wreak - but he must take her back.

"You'll return with me to the capital," he tells her two days later, two days of keeping her caged up in his rooms.

"Wonderful," she snipes. She's like a cat, he thinks, restless and irritable, prowling his rooms with her fur on end and her claws out. "I'll pack my best breeches."

"Nobody will be aware of your identity," he continues. That catches her, he sees it, allows himself a smirk.

"I think one or two might recognise me," she says drily.

"Once we get there, you'll be confined to my chambers," he continues.

"Might raise some gossip," she comments, drumming her fingers on his desk. "You keeping a girl in your chambers. People will think I'm a whore you've picked up." She smirks at him. "Your daughter will love that idea."

"Are you concerned with your reputation, my Lady?"

"Not remotely. Yours, on the other hand -"

"My reputation will survive just fine," he replies. "You'll stay in my chambers for less than a week, while I arrange for you to be - made to look more like a Lady." She outright laughs.

"Good luck," she tells him. "My Septa tried for ten years to make me into a lady. It was a roaring success, as you can see. Even my father gave up on that little exercise."

"A few silks," he mutters, more to himself.

"It'll take more than silk and a few ribbons to fix this, Lannister," she says, gesturing at her shorn head and thin frame under her stolen clothes. "I'll look like a boy dressed up as a girl, like something out of a whore-house."

"This isn't up for discussion," he tells her. "When I present you to the court, you'll look the part - instead of being some hellion. If I show you now as Lady Arya, I doubt even your sister would believe me."

"If you want to waste your gold on me, Lannister, fine," she says. "But I advise you to guard me well. I escaped that viper's nest once. I'll do it again."

  
She asks to be allowed to say farewell to two boys - the fat one and the blacksmith. He doesn't think much to either of them when he sends a guard to being them to his chambers - but for all that he stays while she bids them a stiff farewell. The blacksmith gives her a fierce hug and he wonders briefly - but dismisses it at once. She's too young.

  
He orders a closed wheelhouse, keeps her guarded day and night. If she can escape a city, she could easily escape a camp. But, strangely, she doesn't even try. Even when he allows her out of the wheelhouse to take a brief walk every evening - escorted by no fewer than four guards who take up all four points of the compass around her each time - she doesn't try. No attempts to bolt, no attempts to fight her way out - nothing. She just walks along, arms wrapped around her thin frame and her eyes firmly fixed on the ground beneath her.

  
She eats hungrily and enthusiastically at every meal, regardless of the fact that all there is on the road is standard soldier's fare. He's never seen the point of travelling with opulence - it just slows him down. Still, she eats up porridge, camp-fire stew, salt beef and black bread like he's serving her a feast. Her manners don't look out of place in a soldier's camp but for a Lady, they're appalling. He'll have to do something about that.

"I'll have to get a Septa or something for you," he remarks, watching her wipe her mouth on her sleeve. She grins.

"You'll never manage to make me a Lady, Lannister. A Septa telling me to take my elbows off the table isn't going to cut it."

"You eat like you'll never see food again," he says bluntly. "Your manners are conspicuous by their absence." A dark shadow passes over her face.

"I know what it is to starve," she says in a low voice. "When I got out of the Keep after they arrested my father, I lived on the streets for a time. I went hungry. I ate scraps from the gutter a few times, just to stay alive, traded pigeons I caught and killed for stale bread and half-rotten fruit. And when we got caught and brought to Harrenhal - well. They weren't too bothered about feeding us. When you aren't too sure where the next meal's coming from, table manners aren't exactly a priority."   
  
It throws him a little, having her be so open. The tiny glimpse of the life she's led, the quick slice of honesty in amongst her dry retorts and humourless jokes is jarring somehow. And yet - it's not plaintive, or whining. She's just stating a fact. He says as much to her, gets a shrug.

"Whining about it isn't going to change it, is it? It's happened. No changing the past."

  
Within the fortnight, he's back in the capital with Arya safely locked in his chambers. While he knows for certain the Varys will learn of her presence there, he knows there's no possible way for Varys to know exactly who she is. He's the only one alive who knows that - with the exception of Baelish, who is safe in the Vale, getting ready to marry Arryn's widow. There's a lot of value in information - and the fewer who know that information, the more valuable the information is.

  
She's restless, irritable, the caged-cat routine returning even after only a few hours.

"Will you stop that infernal pacing?" he snaps at her.

"No," she snaps back. "I don't like being trapped, Lannister."

"You aren't meant to like it."

"I'm of no use to you," she says. "Nobody is going to want to marry me. Just let - let me go."

"Why do you think nobody will want to marry you?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. She snorts.

"The second daughter of an arraigned traitor? Ah yes, what an enviable prize." Her grey eyes are blazing. "My father did not live his life as an honourable decent man for this to happen to me."

"Your father -"

"Be careful," she says lowly, warningly. "Be very careful what you say about my father, Lannister."

"Your father paid the consequences for his honour, girl," Tywin says. "The world is not black and white."

"No, but incest is an abomination in any shade of grey," she retorts. "And cuckolding a King is a damn stupid thing to do."

"You are treading a thin line -" he warns, only for her to interrupt and carry on.

"Your daughter is a credit to you, isn't she? And your son too, when they call him the Kingslayer, the Oathbreaker - man without honour. Too much honour is a better thing than none - and your family is devoid of it completely. When they say your name in the years to come, what do you think people will remember you for? For your battle prowess? Or will it be as the man who betrayed one King, married his adulteress daughter to another, put an inbred monster on the throne? The man whose children had an incestuous affair and slipped three bastards into the royal crib? Not a legacy most men would die for. Barely a legacy at all. More like a judgement, I'd say."

"Stop," he growls, rising to his feet.

"They might remember my father as nothing but a fool who died for honour - but the North will remember, Lannister. The North will remember the truth - and I'd rather have an honourable fool for a father than a man who allowed corruption to fester in his own castle."

  
He's got her backed to the wall with his hands at the neck of her shabby jerkin before he's back in control. There's triumph in her grey eyes, and a dangerous smirk on her lips.

"Have I touched a nerve, Lannister?" she taunts. "Perhaps next time you insult my father, you'll remember this - and remember what I can do." He releases his hold of her, steps back.

"You'll stay here," he grinds out through gritted teeth. "I have work to do."


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn't return to his chambers until long after nightfall. He's weary from the road, fighting a dull headache and yearning for a bed - but his feet refuse to hurry. In an attempt to establish a position, he'd spoken to several courtiers about Sansa Stark, having had some vague plan to let the sisters see each other - but the news he has heard has been enough to chill his blood.

  
Beaten, brutalised, humiliated, all but tortured, Sansa Stark has suffered terribly in his absence. Fury has been bubbling just beneath the surface for hours, and he's all too aware that he'll have a shadowcat on his hands if - or when - Arya hears about this. No. Far better he wait, perhaps get her betrothed first - ideally to someone who'll promptly remove her from the city - and then let her find out.

  
The guards report that the girl hasn't moved all day, has just sat in a chair staring out of the window. It's exactly the position he finds her in when he goes inside. The guards might be fools, but he is not. She'll have searched every inch of his rooms in between the checks, assessed everything in them for weaponry value, usefulness and practicality. She'll have counted all the exits and made a note of the escape possibilities of each one.

  
It's exactly what he would have done.

  
She glowers when he shuts the door behind him, makes sure she sees him turn the key before he approaches her.

"I wouldn't use the door," she informs him blandly.

"It's to keep people out," he replies. "Not to keep you in."

"People will realise I'm here," she points out. "A locked door is not enough to hide a person in this city when even the walls have eyes and ears. And all the locks in the world won't keep your daughter out of here when she hears of the presence of a girl in your chambers." She's far from stupid, this scrappy girl who has fought for life. She's always been razor-sharp.

"It will serve my purposes for now. And only one person in the world knows exactly who you are." She nods.

"Very wise, Lannister - keep your secrets, trust nobody. But you have guards capable of giving tongue to half the truth outside that very door - that the great Lord of the Rock has a girl locked in his chambers, his personal chambers. The rumour could be round this Keep in - oh, I think it might take a few hours to reach the Queen's ears, but reach them they will." He frowns at her, opens his mouth to speak but she evidently has not finished. "I'm basing this on how long it took your guards to hear a very interesting story concerning my sister," she says sweetly. She leans forward, her smile growing icy. "Very interesting it was, and very silly of them when they were not very discreet when they discussed it directly outside that door. It's funny how people always forget that a wooden door is not soundproof." Pain stabs sharp behind Tywin's left eye as his headache intensifies suddenly. He realises a moment too late that it's because he's clenching his teeth.

"I can -"

"You can what?" she spits, hot rage replacing the icy sweetness. "You can explain? Are you honestly going to attempt to justify your cunt of a grandson having my sister publically stripped and beaten?"

"My grandson is King -"

"Your grandson is a monster," she flashes back. "Say what you like about him, he's still a monster. He's a weaker King than even the Mad King - at least people feared Aerys. Your grandson can't even scrape up fear-induced respect." Her lip curls into a sneer. "He's a weak, useless, idiotic, vicious coward."

"He's still King."

"That's pathetic, Lannister. Is that the best you can do?" Her eyes are burning hot, pinning him in their gaze. "My silence about who I am now comes at a price, Lannister. You aren't the only one to know the value of information. I want Joffrey and Meryn Trant punished for what they have done. I want a guarantee that my sister will never be deliberately hurt again, that she will be treated with respect and gentleness as she deserves. And I want to see her - if not tonight, then first thing tomorrow." He sits back in his chair.

"You demand a lot, for so small a thing," he says. "I would want more than your silence in exchange for that."

"What would you ask?" she queries, and he admires the fact that she doesn't say anything. Clever girl indeed.

"Your co-operation. You submit to my plans for you and your confinement here. Then you have my word - and you can even choose how Trant is punished. You co-operate with me, and you have my word that your sister will be safe, unhurt and treated decently. I'll let you see her and I'll let you choose Trant's punishment. Do we have an accord, Lady Stark?" Her eyes flicker, he sees the consideration there.

"How do I know you will keep your word?"

"My honour may not match up to the standards your father would recognise, but I am not in the habit of breaking my promises."

  
He sees the moment she decides.

"Fine. I'll play along, Lannister. You have my word - for exactly as long as I have yours. I'll do it." They shake, her thin hand in his own, her palms rough from work and hard living. A soldier's vow.

  
Later that night, when he retires to bed, he reflects with grim admiration on the girl's spirit. She'd sold her freedom for her sister's future. That's not just loyalty. That's devotion. More than that, she'd put them into deadlock with her caveat that she'd keep her word if he kept his. She could not now break it, but neither could he. Had she been his own daughter, he could not have been less proud. She'll make someone an excellent wife.

  
He'll have to make sure it's someone clever enough to use and appreciate her talents, whilst willing to overlook the murderous tendancies she shows. He'll have to ensure any husband he finds for her is also capable of keeping her contained. Marry her to some weak-willed or gentle man and she'll rule him with a rod of iron. And the last thing he'll want to deal with is Arya Stark's sharp tactical mind with the manpower to back her up. Not to mention that whoever he finds absolutely must be unfailingly loyal to the name Lannister. He snorts to himself, turning over to settle himself for sleep. Even if such a man does exist, he'd be bloody hard-pressed to find him unmarried.

  
He wonders what punishment she'll devise for Trant.


	4. Chapter 4

"What the hell am I meant to do with these?" she demands, poking gingerly at the box of oil vials. He rolls his eyes, almost amused by her wariness. Tell her to sharpen a sword and off she skips, give her beauty aids and she reacts like he's requested she roll herself in broken glass.

"They're for your hair, and your hands," he replies.

"Which is which? And what'll they do?"

"The girl told me that the one with the clear stopper is for your hair and that you should apply it and then rinse it out. The other is for your hands. As for what they'll do, I'm informed that they'll improve the condition of hair and hands respectively."

"And I'm using these because..."

"Because we had a deal that you'd co-operate," he reminds her. "Consider this part of making you into some kind of Lady."

"Anyone would think you were trying to make me pretty," she drawls. "Careful, Lannister."

"Your sister's going to be here soon," he tells her, which wipes the taunting smirk off her face. "Why don't you wash?"

  
She washes hands, face and neck in the water he had brought for her, but it's all she does. She has nothing to change into. At Harrenhal, she looked no worse than anyone else, but here, the dirt and shabbiness of her clothes shows up sharply.

"Put this on," he directs, throwing her one of his own shirts. "Bring out your jerkin. I'll have it cleaned."

"Will I get it back?" she asks.

"Yes," he answers. It seems to satisfy her at least, because she goes into the bedchamber he's assigned to her to change.

  
She looks ridiculous in his shirt, with it drowning her thin frame and making her look even younger than she really is.

"You don't think me wearing your shirt might give off a slightly odd impression to my sister?" she queries.

"I'm sure your sister is far too well-bred to pass comment," he says, gets a grin.

"Unlike me, you mean," she says cheerfully. She tucks the shirt into her breeches, which he supposes at least stops her looking like she's wearing a dress. She's still swimming in it, but it helps a little.

  
He's sent his own men for Sansa, ordered them to bring her to the Hand's chambers via the hidden passages. Varys will hear of it anyway, but the story he tells the guards is that he wishes to interrogate the girl about Joffrey. No mention is made at all of the girl already in his chambers. He orders Arya into the bedchamber - she can wait a little until he's assessed Sansa's appearance.

  
The girl is everything her young sister is not - graceful, delicate, fragile, beautiful. Arya might be thin but there's nothing frail about her, the kindest soul could not describe her as anything more than interesting of face, she certainly is not graceful, and delicate would not describe even one hair on her shorn little head. Arya looks strong, Sansa looks like she'll be shattered by the next strong gust of wind. She's very pale against the purple of her gown - long sleeves, high neck. An armour, he realises, just as her sister wears her boy's things as protection.

"My Lord Lannister," the girl says, curtseying perfectly. "You said you wished to see me?" Flawless courtesy.

"I do," he acknowledges, gesturing at the chair opposite his desk. "Sit. I wished to extend my sincere apologies for the way the King has seen fit to treat you of late." A flicker. On Arya it would be hidden at once. On Sansa, it stays.

"The King acted only as he saw fit to best protect the reputation of the Crown, my Lord," Sansa says, her voice thin yet steady.

"The King was brutal to you," he says harshly. In a strange way, he already misses Arya's blunt straight-forwardness. "And what he ordered done to you was despicable."

"My Lord, I -"

"He will not harm you again," Tywin tells her. "Someone has ordered him punished. I promised it in return."

"Someone," Sansa repeats, looking at him quizzically.

"Someone who knows you well. Someone who loves you so much they sold their future to buy yours." She's frowning.

"Nobody loves me that much, my Lord. Nobody you'll have cared for enough to buy it from, anyway."

"Don't be so sure, Lady Stark," he says drily. "You can come in," he finishes, knowing Arya will have her ear pressed to the door to hear every word.

  
It swings open. Arya Stark strides in, every inch a soldier in her borrowed shirt and her dirty, travel-worn breeches. Tywin expected her to go straight to Sansa - and she does, while Sansa stares like she's looking at a ghost, but she also glares at him. Tywin has no doubt that she has plenty to say, but a shaking voice interrupts.

"Arya? Oh Gods." Sansa jumps up, pulls her sister into a hug so tight Tywin wonders if it's painful. Ayra returns it no less fiercely - but she looks to Tywin from over her sister's arms.

"Give us time," she says, and it's almost pleading. "Just a moment alone."

  
He gives it as far as he goes into his own bedchamber. The door stays open. He doubts very much Sansa would be capable of helping her sister plot an escape but still - best not to take chances. It's a long time before voices reach him.

"I thought you were dead," Sansa says, her voice thick. He's never liked it when women cry.

"Not me. Stark's are hard to kill - and I found my ways to survive."

"Clearly. What have you done to your hair?" Arya's laugh rings out - a proper laugh, full of warmth and life.

"Of course you'd be fretting about my hair. It'll grow. It's hair."

"Did you hack it off with a rock? Look at it!"

"I believe it was a meat knife. Now look, never mind about my hair. Are you alright? What's that foul cunt been doing to you? Has anyone else hurt you?"

"Arya! You - you can't call the King a - a - that."

"Can and have." Tywin allows himself a grin. Girl has spirit. "Tell me." Sansa must whisper her response, because he doesn't hear it. What he does hear is Arya's explosion of curses, filthy language and threats to kill.

  
He shifts from desk to window, as from here he can see into the room beyond. Sansa is not visible, but Arya - oh, he can see Arya. She's is on her feet, her fists clenched.

"Tywin has promised me - I have made a - they'll suffer for it," she swears, and he can see the fire in her as she says it. "Tell me how much I should make them suffer." There's the knowledge that threatening a King is punishable by death. He does know that. It's just that for now, it's buried under admiration.

"Arya -"

"Tell me." Good Gods, the girl is Ned Stark come again. She has the quiet authority that the man had always had, the kind of presence her father had had but never sought to use, the raw command that ensures she is listened to. Sansa does reply, but her voice is so quiet he only catches a few words.

"He's... Meryn Trant... in the throne room... tore my... my back."

"The cunt." A silence falls, and Arya moves out of his sight. He wonders if she's on her knees beside her sister's chair, if the grey eyes burn with rage.

"Arya," Sansa says, almost hesitantly. "Where - where have you been? And what are you doing with Lord Tywin?" He hears a very impressive snort.

"I've been surviving. Doesn't matter where. And as for what I'm doing with Lannister - he's got some stupid idea of marrying me off somewhere."

"To whom?"

"I don't think he's thought of anyone yet."

"Arya, Lord Tywin said - said that you had sold your future to buy mine."

"He says very strange things," Arya answers. "It didn't mean anything."

"But -"

"It's fine."

  
She lied. She just stood in front of her sister for the first time in four years and she lied. Sold her future - and won't even tell her sister how. That's family, he realises. That there's no price too high that cannot be paid if it must be paid. But that's enough time they've had. He cannot keep Sansa here any longer. He goes back into his solar. Arya is indeed on her knees, her fingers tangled up with Sansa's. Sansa's eyes are a little pink-edged from the tears, but Arya's eyes are dry and fearsome. She looks up when Tywin comes in.

"I suppose you've come to tell us our time is up," Arya says. He nods.

"Lady Sansa's visit will not go unnoticed. It is best she does not linger." Arya nods, and when she looks back at Sansa, Tywin sees an understanding pass between them.

"I'll see you soon," Arya promises, with all the fierceness of a wolf. "But in the meantime, in the meantime you must be brave, Sansa."

"I can be brave."

"Good." The fierce kiss she bestows on Sansa's cheek tells Tywin a hundred stories.

  
With Sansa escorted back to her own chambers, Arya rounds on him with barely-contained fury.

"As far as Sansa is concerned," she hisses, "you and I made no bargains. Let her believe you will punish Joffrey for no other reason than it is the decent thing to do. It's the least you can do after what your family has done to her." She whirls away - but he calls her back from the threshold.

"And Trant? What would you have me do to him?" She advances on him slowly, stops less than three inches from him. She lifts up her chin, meets his eyes with grim fury.

"I would have you do nothing, beyond bringing him to me. I will be the one to punish him."

  
He could say no. He could absolutely say no, tell her to tell him her wishes and he'll see them carried out - in front of her if she so desires. He could say no.

"Very well," he says instead. "I'll see you at sundown." He's got his hand on the doorknob when her icy voice speaks again.

"He's to be unarmed, and unarmoured, Lannister. I want him to know what defenceless feels like."


	5. Chapter 5

For whatever insane reason, he obeys her directive. Trant is too stupid to question a liege Lord, to dispute the Acting Hand. The setting sun is dyeing his chambers a bright fiery orange when Trant goes in. Arya Stark is waiting, in Tywin's shirt and her own breeches.

"Meryn Trant," she breathes. 'Do you know who I am?"

"Should I?" Trant asks, confusion his primary expression. Tywin leans himself against the balcony, watches in his own confusion. What the hell is she going to do?

"Not just yet," she says, sweetly. She circles round Trant to linger just beside him. "Do you remember a man named Syrio Forel?" she queries. Tywin tenses a little.

"Er - yes."

"That's all I wanted to hear," she says sweetly.

  
The blade glints in the light, flashing like lightening as she moves impossibly, insanely fast. Trant's hands go to his eyes, he screams out loud even as Tywin bolts upright from his lean. Blood is pouring out from under Trant's hand, out of his eyes. Dear Gods. She's put his eyes out - and she hasn't finished. She's yanking him backwards, Trant's on his knees - and her hand is knotted in his hair.

"My name is Arya Stark," she hisses. "My name is Arya Stark and I wanted you to know that, Trant. We'll say the eye is for Syrio Forel. But this - I wanted you to know that this is for my sister."

  
Meryn Trant dies on his solar floor, choking on his own blood and leaving Arya bathed in it, her borrowed shirt soaked in it. Tywin's frozen, rooted to the spot as Arya stands over Trant's body, knife still in her stiff hand. He acts. He's beside her in a flash, snatches the blade from her unresisting hand.

"Where in seven hells did you get this, girl?" he explodes.

"Your desk drawer," she says.

"You - you broke into my desk?"

"Did I forget to mention I can pick locks?"

"Yes," he says. "You neglected to mention that." He looks at the blade. His Valyrian blade, been in the Lannister family for generations. He hadn't even realised it was sharp enough to cut a throat.

"I didn't know it would be so - so messy," she says idly. "Not so much spray." He gives her a sharp look.

"Was - have you done this before?" She nods.

"Not like this," she answers. "The last one was in the chest. Back when I still had my sword."

"Did you stop to think that Meryn Trant is - was - a member of the Kingsguard? The murder of whom is punishable by death? The murder of whom will be noticed?" She looks up him. A glimmer of a smile hovers on her lips.

"Kill me then," she invites.

  
The silence stretches out. The glimmer becomes a grin - a feral, demonic thing.

"Didn't think so." And she just - walks away. Just walks away and closes her bedchamber door with a soft click.

  
He has a trusted man dump Trant's body in the Keep's sewer. He'll be found in the morning no doubt, by the guards who patrol the exits of the sewers. Robert had never had them guarded- but Tyrion had made it an order after he was made Acting Hand. Anything that could be used as an exit could also in theory be an entrance - and therefore it ought to be protected. Tywin despises the man for the sake of his dead wife - but he admires the mind even if he hates the owner.

  
It's while he's washing Trant's blood off his hands that realisation strikes. He's bursting into her room before he can process it - and there she is. Lit by candlelight and firelight - and naked as a babe.

  
Except she's not a babe. No, she's a far cry from it. How the hell - his eyes tear themselves away from her body, are caught by a pile of long linen strips on the table her room boasts as one of it's only pieves or furniture. Binding. She's been binding her breasts flat, he can even see the red, raw marks where the linen's rubbed against her pale skin. He tears his eyes away again, not even certain when he'd looked back at her. She's not - she's not reacting. There's no scramble to cover herself, no scramble to hide her modesty from him. Doesn't even cover her cunt. Just stands there, hands loose at her sides. There's still blood on her hands and face.

"Can I help you, Lannister? Lannister? Lannister!" He drags his mind back to her face.

"I - there was something -"

"Tywin Lannister, lost for words," she drawls. "If I'd known that all it would take to shut you up was showing you my tits, I'd've got them out months ago. How's long's it been since you saw a woman naked, Lannister, for this to render you dumb and deaf?" She gestures at her body as she talks. And - on any other woman alive, it'd be a thinly-vieled attempt at modesty, coqettishness - not on her. She runs down her own body matter-of-factly, without any self-pity or loathing. She's just - she believes she's unattractive and doesn't care a damn anyway. "Unless you came stomping in here to tell me the Keep's on fire, or to inform me that Joffrey's arrived with a spike to put my head on, would you mind leaving? I want to wash."

"I can have a bath sent up," he offers - which was not the reason he came in. What was the reason? He can't even remember. He can't think why it mattered. 

"Thank you," she says. "I'd appreciate it."

  
When he gives the order and locks himself into his own bedchamber - locks, because for the first and only time in his life he doesn't trust his self-control - his heart is banging like a barn door in a hurricane. She's sixteen, he tells himself sternly. Sixteen and you are nearer sixty than fifty. Get your mind out of the gutter.

  
He hears the bath go into her, hears all the bustle that filling it comes with and he does not emerge. He hears the silence fall, a while later he hears the clatter of it being taken away again and still he does not emerge. He half expects her to come and taunt him, but she does not. Of course not, he tells himself angrily. You stood and gawped at her like a lecherous old fool. But - oh, but. She had made not one move to cover herself, had not sought to hide her nakedness and had not shied away. She'd kept her head up and her eyes clear and not even a tremor had passed through her whilst he had greedily drunk in the sight of her naked body. Her tits, dear Gods, her tits.

  
She's in his dreams - naked, soft, with tits any whore would die for. In his dreams, she doesn't just stand there, either. She approaches him, stands within touching distance. And his dream self, the traitorous fucking bastard, very much does touch her; fills his hands with her flesh and and touches his bloody fill. The dream-Arya smiles up at him, putting her hands over his own where they cup and carress her breasts, tightening her fingers to make him tighten his until they dig into flesh.

"I like to be able to feel a man's hands, Lannister," she tells him. "I like to feel it the day after. You don't have to be gentle."

  
He wakes hard and aching and full of terrible hatred for his own weakness, for his lust over a girl younger than one of his grandchildren. Bile and disgust crawl in his belly. In the daylight, in the harsh glow of a sunlit day, it's easy to despise himself. Last night - last night he'd all but violated her, standing there staring at her breasts and the dark curls between her slim white thighs.

  
He stays in bed, fists clenched and teeth shredding the insides of his cheeks until his erection has subsided and he feels more in control. It's no easy feat, but not for nothing is Tywin Lannister famed for his discipline. He gets up, dresses, keeps his mind running over tactical lists until every trace of the dream has been forced into the darkest recesses of his mind.

  
He'll order the dressmakers today. It's time he started working seriously towards turning Arya into the Lady she is by birth - and finding a damned husband for her. He'll see her married if it's the last thing he does.


	6. Chapter 6

She clearly isn't happy - but she stands perfectly still while the dressmakers fuss around her, measuring and draping and pinning. He'd had to order her to leave her breasts unbound beneath another of his borrowed shirts and he had been damn proud of himself when the words had come out in his normal tones. She hadn't objected.

  
The dressmaker leaves with the promise that at least one gown will be ready on the morrow but tells Tywin as an aside that the more complex one's he has ordered for her - entirely without her knowledge, it must be said - will take a while longer. His only concession to her free choice had been to let her specify the colours, choosing from the samples the dressmakers had brought. It doesn't surprise him at all that she chooses black, steel-grey and one dark green, so dark it might as well be black. Stark colours, and the colour of leaves at midnight. Still, he doesn't interfere.

  
She's drumming her fingers on his desk whilst he tries to work, tries to ignore her. After she's wandered in and out of her bedchamber about fifty times, prowled the balcony more, she obviously snaps.

"Lannister!" she barks. "I'm so bored I'm contemplating killing you just to have something to bloody do." He looks up, bites down the sharp retort when he finally looks at her. There's something of a frenzy burning in her eyes, a restlessness about her that tells him she might actually be serious.

"Do you not find my chambers to your liking, Lady Stark?"

"Will you stop calling me Lady Stark? Your chambers are fine, just excessively, mind-numbingly, screamingly dull. Dear Gods, I keep hoping your daughter finds out I'm here. At least listening to her scream at you would be something to think about!"

"You are most welcome to read my books," he tells her. "Or examine the tapestries."

"Have we met? I need to get out of this room, Lannister, I need to feel the sun on my damned skin and the wind in my hair, I need to do something, not sit down and stare at a book."

"All of which is sadly impossible, unless you wish for courtiers to recognise you." She rolls her eyes.

"Nobody will recognise me, Lannister. I've been dead for years, remember? I'll bind my chest, put a jerkin on, hell I'll wear a cloak too if you like and not a single soul would know me."

"You may as well resign yourself," he tells her. ""Until you can be made to look like a Lady and until I have got a suitable husband picked out for you, you will remain in here." She snorts.

"Who have you got in mind, Lannister?"

"Nobody you need concern yourself with," he answers bluntly. The truth, of course, is that he's as blank on that as he was when he first started thinking about it.

"Meaning you can't think of anyone," she says. Her face goes very serious suddenly. "May I propose a solution?"

"You may," he says, leaning back in his chair slightly.

"Let me go," she says. "I don't mean just let me out of here. Let me go. I'll take Sansa with me too, get her away from Joffrey. We'll leave the country, I swear. You'll never hear either of our names again."

"And what would I gain?"

"Sansa leaves," Arya says. "After what Joffrey's done to her - in public, no less - you're in serious danger of her becoming a sympathetic rallying point. Especially given you'll be killing Robb soon enough."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you think I'm bloody stupid, Lannister? I know he'll die. He cannot win. He's lost half his army thanks to thinking with his cock."

"You sound almost resigned."

"Don't you dare think this doesn't break my fucking heart, Lannister," she snarls. "But I grieved for my brother long ago, grieved him as a dead man. I have no more tears to shed for my family. I cannot save Robb - but I have a chance to save my sister. Let us go. You'll never hear the name Stark again, I swear it. I swear it on my father's tomb." He rests his elbows on the arms of his chair, steeples his fingers.

"And how would we explain Sansa's sudden absence?"

"Tell everyone she's dead, if you like. Easy enough to fake - get a girl of her age, her rough appearance, stage her death. Tell everyone she escaped - find a scapegoat you can accuse of helping her and execute them. Tell everyone she ran away. There's a hundred ways a man as clever as you could explain it."

  
She's got a brilliant mind, he has to admit. Certainly, letting the Stark girls go would remove them from the picture most effectively - but there's something she hasn't considered in her little plan.

"You've forgotten something," he tells her.

"Which is?"

"Winterfell," he says, shortly. "When your brother dies, Sansa becomes the key to the North. We need a living Stark heir to secure the North."

"The North will be lost to you," she tells him bluntly. "The moment Robb dies, any loyalty left up there after what your psychotic grandson did to my father will die too. Marrying Sansa off will not, cannot change that. There's a reason there's a Warden of the North, not of the Westerlands or Dorne or the Crownlands. It's because it can't be ruled. To hold the North you need North and Crown to be loyal to each other and that all died with my father and King Robert." She paces. "Have you ever realised that every time - every time - the North has rebelled against the Crown, the Crown has always, always lost in the end? When the Mad King burnt my grandfather and uncle alive, he lost the Rebellion. When your grandson cut off my father's head, my brother rode to war - and he's currently got your son as his hostage. My brother might lose his battle with you, Tywin, might even pay with his life. But he won't lose the war because his cause will live on in hearts of the North. The North remembers, Lannister. The North always remembers." He regards her with nothing short of amazement.

"How in the seven hells do you know that?" he asks bluntly. He's met captains who don't understand the Northern situation this well - hells, he's known Kings and Princes of the blood who don't understand it that well. He's never in his life met a girl as sharp and as tactically-minded as Arya Stark. Had she been born a boy, she would have been a general of unrivalled skill and knowledge, she would have been a soldier without equal. She'd have won the war against his grandson within days of starting it. He wonders if she ever stops thinking.

"Like I said, Lannister, I am not stupid. I heard my father teaching Robb how to be the next Warden of the North a hundred times. I asked questions. I listened. I read. I learnt everything I could because I was so determined I was going to be so much more than a wife for some Lord. Even as a child I know I didn't want that life. So I tried my damndest to find ways even then to quietly rebel - and learning the lessons Robb did was a part of that."

  
There's a long silence between them - and there's no hope in her face. She knows his answer. This was the last card - and she had to play it to the end.

"I cannot let you go." Even as he says it, there's a gentleness in his voice. "But - as and when we find a husband for your sister, I will take your opinion into account."

"Why?" she asks bluntly.

"Because you impress me," he returns, equally bluntly. It's her turn to have a flicker of surprise, he sees it momentarily flare in her grey eyes.

"I impress you?"

"Yes, greatly. You are not stupid - you have a sharp mind and the brains to use it well. You have sense - to a certain extent, anyway but then you are still young. More to the point, you are fiercely loyal to your family - and that is an admirable quality. I cannot promise that you will influence my decision, of course, but I will consider your opinion." She nods.

""Will you listen to my opinion on my own marriage?"

"Do you already have one?" He even gets a shadow of a smile from her for that.

"Of course," she answers. 

"You may speak freely then - as I suspect you would regardless."

"You're right, I would. Alright then. Here's what I know. I look a mess. Nobody is going to be champing at the bit to line up for me, not standing next to Sansa anyway. And the youngest daughter is rarely a draw anyway, doubly so when she's the youngest daughter of traitors, with a dead family and a hostage sister. You already know what I'm capable of in terms of violence, so you already know that whoever you choose will have to be a good fighter unless you want a wedding-night castration on your hands. And to compensate for everything else, it'll need to be an arranged marriage - someone you can order, someone you can control. That kind of loyalty only comes through a family tie, and a close one - so it will have to be someone very close to you indeed." This is everything he'd thought of, down to the detailing. "But you also need to ensure that whoever I marry in the end will have to be capable of using me, as well as containing me. Can't let a mind like this go to waste, after all. That means it'll have to be to someone older, someone with the sense to see the value in me. So - really, Lannister, you've only got one option."

"Have I? Whom do you suggest?" he queries, leaning back in his chair. She offers him a sunny smile.

"Isn't it obvious, my Lord?" He jolts at it. She hasn't called him my Lord since he tore away her mask to reveal her as Arya Stark. "Someone you trust absolutely, someone strong enough to contain me - yet strong enough to recognise my value as more than a brood mare and wife?"

"Do enlighten me, Lady Stark." She rolls her eyes.

"I'll have to marry you."


	7. Chapter Seven

It had rattled him down to his bones, her absolutely calm assertion that he'll have to marry her himself. He'd sat there struck silent for so long she'd been smirking long before he regained enough composure to order her from his solar. She'd strolled out like she had nothing to do with dropping a cache of Wildfire on him, even whistled as she went, banging her bedchamber door behind her cheerfully.

  
He'd left his chambers immediately, buried himself in a Small Council meeting. Naturally, the biggest topic of conversation was Meryn Trant, who had been found that morning as planned, bloated corpse still bloodstained and his throat gaping open. Not even Varys pointed out that Trant's last known movements had taken him unarmed and unarmoured to Tywin's own chambers.

"One could argue that a man who'll happily beat a defenceless child deserves whatever might be coming to him," Tyrion remarked from his end of the table.

"Meryn Trant was a Kingsguard," Cersei snaps back. "The murder of whom implies that someone can get close enough to the King to kill him. It makes us look weak."

"Perhaps our Master of Whispers can be of assistance?" Tyrion suggests sarcastically. "It is, after all, his job."

"Alas, my Lord, my birds do not sing yet. Naturally this is a priority but for now, I am as ignorant as you all." Tywin hides his amusement at Cersei's reddening cheeks at that thinly-veiled dig in his water goblet.

"I have a question about your little birds," Cersei sneers. "Do they have anything to say about the whore Lord Tywin is currently keeping in his chambers?"

  
Even Tyrion flinches. Tywin rises to his feet and gestures to the door.

"Anybody not directly related to me by blood, get out," he orders. The room clears in short order. Even Pycelle, the husk that he is, manages to put a bit of speed into his shuffle. Cersei sits back with a dangerous smirk.

"Have I touched a nerve, Father?" she mocks.

"Do you understand the concept of family business?" Tyrion snaps at her. "We don't discuss family business in public, do we now Father?"

"No we do not," Tywin grinds out. "But just as an aside, Cersei, I do not have a whore in my chambers. There is a girl in there, I grant you, but she certainly isn't a whore. Nor have I done anything improper." _Apart from stare at her naked_.

"I heard you've got her dressing as a boy," Cersei drawls. "Despite the fact that all your guards know she's a girl."

"I've got her dressing as a boy because it's all she owns in the world," Tywin drawls back. "It's a situation I plan to remedy, naturally."

"So who is she?" Cersei snaps. "Who is this girl you've got hidden away in your chambers? You've never been the charitable kind to adopt some orphan."

"You do not need to know who she is," Tywin returns. "Not yet, anyway."

"I am the Queen," Cersei growls. "And I order you -"

"You order me?" Tywin says in a low, warning voice. "I think not, daughter. I think you need to remember your place. You will find out exactly who she is - when I decide to inform you, and no earlier." Cersei stands up, nearly shaking with rage.

"My mother would turn in her grave to see this," she hisses.

  
Tywin rises slowly to his feet, advances on her slowly. Credit to her, she doesn't shrink back.

"Your mother," he says, in a dangerous voice, "was a thousand times the Lady you were or ever will be. And your mother would be ashamed to see you now, objecting to my kindness and doing what you have done to this family."

  
He leaves, leaves because he doesn't trust himself not to hit her. He returns to his office, instead of his chambers, sits down behind his desk to scrub a hand over his face. And he finally allows himself to consider Arya's bombshell.

  
She's right, of course, absolutely right. He is the most logical solution. He trusts himself above even his own children - and he would not marry her to Tyrion. Tyrion has little love for his nephew, less for his sister - and quite possibly none at all for Tywin himself. If Tywin gives him Arya, they'd be a lethal combination. He cannot marry her to Jaime - currently a hostage to Robb Stark, and besides that bound by Kingsguard vows for life - because he would be ruled with an iron fist by someone like Arya. And anyone further away from him - no. He needs to keep a loose cannon like Arya Stark as close as possible.

  
He opens negotiations with her over dinner. This will be a business transaction, nothing more.

"I have considered your suggestion," he tells her. She nods.

"Playing on your mind, was it?" she mocks. "Go on then. Let's hear it."

"If I were to agree that your solution of marrying me was the most logical and sensible one available to us, we would need to lay out the expectations we'd both have."

"Very well," she agrees, stabbing a slice of pork on the end of her knife. "Go on. I'm all ears."

"I would expect children off you," he says bluntly. "My current batch are - disappointing. However, you would understand that any children you do give me would fall into the line of inheritance behind Tyrion. Cersei is out of it - she's a dependant of the Crown as a widow of a King and besides which is unmarried. Jaime is Kingsguard, and cannot inherit regardless."

"Naturally."

"I could, if children from you prove satisfactory, change the inheritance to reflect it accordingly. In the event I predecease you -"

"Highly likely event," she mutters, which he chooses to ignore.

"You would be well-provided for, and entirely free to marry again as a wealthy Lannister widow." He allows himself a smirk. "I imagine that that time around, you'd be beating off suitors with a stick. You'd be entirely free to choose."

"Wonderful," she says sardonically.

"I would share your bed only as much as is necessary to get you with child - and you have my word that I will treat you gently."

"What joy. May I make specifications of my own?"

"You may," he says.

"You will allow me to continue my sword work," she begins. "At least twice a week. I will help you choose a decent husband for Sansa - not just have an opinion. You'll let me see my sister. As and when we share a bed, you'll look at me when you fuck me." That last one takes him by surprise.

"May I ask why?"

"You may," she says, mimicking his words from earlier. "I'm not a whore, Tywin. You will not stare at the back of my head and imagine I'm someone else. I want you to be looking at me, and I want you to remember who I am."

"Very well." She can play her games with him if she likes. He's been playing since before she was even born. "Do you have any other requests?"

"Just one," she says. "I'm not a fragile little flower, Lannister. I will not accept being treated like one - in any respect." He nods.

"Then we seem to have reached an accord, Lady Arya." It's the first time he's used her first name in quite some time.

"Indeed we do - Lord Tywin. When can I expect the wedding?"

"As soon as you have something suitable to wear. Within the week, I imagine. A dress will be ready for you tomorrow. Once it arrives, you'll put it on and I'll announce both your identity and our betrothal to the Court. But first of all, I do have one question for you."

"Go ahead."

"Are you still a maiden?" She laughs.

"Afraid someone else got there first? Yes, Lannister, I am. But whether I'll bleed or not - I'm uncertain."

"Why?" She smirks at him then, holds up.a hand to start counting off on her fingers.

"One, I've ridden a hell of a lot of horses. My Septa used to warn me it'd break my maidenhead - not that I ever gave a shit. Two, I've not exactly sat on my arse sewing all my life. Maester Luwin used to theorise physical activity could also break it. And three, I travelled with a lot of very crude men. If you think I didn't hear stories about whore's fucking themselves for show, you've got another thing coming to you - and if you think I didn't try it out then you're much, much stupider than you look."

  
He damn near gapes at her. A powerful, entirely uninvited vision of her with her hand down her ridiculous breeches, exploring her cunt in the dead of night rises up before his eyes. He closes them, just for a moment. It does not get rid of the image, and when he opens them again, she's smirking at him. He does not like how much of an effect she can have on him, so seeks to retake some of the control.

"Cersei will not pleased to hear this," he tells her.

"I wasn't planning to tell her I fuck myself, Lannister." That damned smirk is still on her face.

"Not that," he snaps. "I meant our betrothal."

"Oh, so we are official then?"

"I accept your terms. Do you accept mine?" She nods.

"I do."

"Then the betrothal is official."

"Just checking we were on the same page," she says sweetly.

"As I was saying," he continues, glowering at her. "Cersei will not be pleased when she hears of this." Her face goes serious, and she nods, slowly.

"I know. I'm not going to posture by telling you your daughter does not frighten me - I think you already know that. However, I'm not stupid. I know she could find a way to have me killed, I know she could slip me poison or hire a knife for my back."

"You'll have a taster," he tells her abruptly. "And you'll be well guarded."

"And you can guarantee my safety, can you?" she queries, face perfectly blank.

"Not remotely," he answers. "I'd suggest once you're my wife, you start sleeping with a blade handy."

"Not afraid I'd use it on you?"

"You're welcome to try," he tells her. "If you manage it, I'll congratulate you warmly." He swallows the last of his dinner, pushes his plate away. She does the same.

"Well then, here we are - betrothed," she says, rolling the word in her mouth.

"I appreciate I'm hardly what young women dream of," he says.

"I never wanted to marry anyone, Lannister. You don't exactly have a standard to live up to. Is that everything?" she asks, standing up from the table.

"Yes, I think so," he answers. She walks over to her bedchamber. "Stark," he calls. She turns, door open, already over the threshold. "I assume you understand that this is a business transaction."   


"Naturally, Lannister. I'd expect nothing less."

  
There aren't many sixteen year old girls who could so calmly sit down and work out the terms for her own betrothal like they're haggling over the price of a side of beef. There are fewer who acknowledge they are entering into a loveless, mutually-forced marriage without grieving. But Arya Stark is not just a sixteen year old girl. She's a woman with ice in her soul and iron in her heart - and she's sold her future to give her sister a chance at happiness. He admires that, he'll freely admit he admires that.

  
He writes the betrothal contract himself, signs his name and stamps it with the seals of both Lannister and the Hand. In the morning, she can add her own signature and he'll have it sent to the High Septon for his own signature. All perfectly business-like. He'll write out the vows for her to learn, as he doubts very much she'll know the Faith words. He'd allow her a Godswood wedding if they had a Heart Tree. The Gods know he never planned to be back in a Sept again, least of all to recite another lot of marriage vows.

  
Cersei will be furious.


	8. Chapter Eight

The dressmaker duly returns the next morning, with not one but two dresses.

"I got a few of the girls to stay, m'Lord," she explains. "As the situation was - pressing."

"Thank you. Girl!" She comes out like she's awaiting execution. Her hair is an absolute bird's nest, just as it had been at breakfast. She must see him glowering.

"I didn't think there was a point brushing it," she says. "I'd only fuck it up."

"Get her dressed, please," he directs the maid he'd borrowed from the Royal household. "And do whatever you can for that hair." The girl curtsies silently, follows the dressmaker and her assistant into Arya's bedchamber. The door is shut, he sits down at his desk to begin work for the day. At least once she's presented to the Court, she'll be free to wander as she will - within reason, of course. And then he'll be able to get on with his business without needing to stay locked in with her. It'll be a lot more efficient.

  
It takes quite some time to dress her, he reflects. Or perhaps it's her hair causing the issue. He's contemplating knocking when the maid comes out, followed by the dressmaker and assistant. The maid looks distinctly nervous.

"Is she ready yet?" he demands. The maid visibly swallows.

"She is my Lord, but she - she refuses to come out." He raises his eyebrows, and the maid visibly quails.

"She refuses?" He'd never have had her pegged as the shy type. "Very well. The three of you may go." He pays the dressmaker generously for the two dresses, promises her double if she can complete the rest by the end of the week, and goes over to Arya's door.

  
She's fully dressed, her hair brushed and ordered to a glossy shine, arranged neatly so he can barely tell it's a hundred different lengths.

"Are you having doubts, Lady Stark?" he enquires sarcastically. Not that she can, not now - and she'd scrawled her signature on their betrothal contact without hesitating.

"No. I can't fucking walk in this stupid fucking thing." She takes a couple of steps, and the skirt tangles and tucks. She stops, balling her fists. "See?" He sighs. He hadn't considered this, hadn't know he had to consider this. She's trying to stride though, he can see that much.

"Try taking shorter steps," he suggests. It does stop the skirt tangling up around her legs, but now she looks like she's hobbling. "Walk naturally," he orders, earns himself a glower.

"I'm not going out there," she growls. "I look fucking ridiculous. And if your daughter flies at me to scratch her eyes out, how the fuck am I meant to run?"

"Stop being so bloody dramatic," he snaps back. "You'll be at my side throughout today, you will be guarded and if Cersei so much as steps towards you I'll deal with it. You will have no need whatsoever to run." He pauses, then adds something else. "And you do not look ridiculous."

  
The gown was in her chosen colour of black, made of silk and trimmed with ribbon. Against her pallor, it looked well, her grey eyes an interesting contrast to the dark features. It was long in the sleeve, but lower-cut than he'd perhaps expected. The underthings it had come with must be tightly laced beneath it. _Stop thinking about her bloody underclothes_. She's apparently ignored his half-compliment in favour of pacing.

"That's better," he says approvingly. "Just remember to keep your strides short. You aren’t in breeches now, Lady Stark." She rolls her shoulders, nods at him.

"Fine. Let's go and ruin everyone's day, shall we?" Her smirk is back in place.

"One would think you're going to enjoy this," he says drily.

"Oh, I am. You have no idea how bored I've been. If I'm very lucky, the news might shock your grandson into choking on his own rage." He doesn't bother to reprimand her. "How are we doing this anyway?" she enquires, watching him buckle his sword-belt into place. Might as well do this with all precautions.

"I'll call the Small Council and inform them first," he answers shortly. "Then the King. Then the Court."

"Don't you want to tell Tyrion and Cersei separately?" she enquires, sounding for once like her curiosity is genuine instead of sarcastic.

"No," he answers, opening a desk drawer. "I do not. Here," he says, handing over the Valyrian blade she had used to murder Trant with. "Consider it a betrothal gift, Lady Stark." She raises her eyebrows at him. "And it might be better if you had a weapon of your own."

"And where do you propose I put it? Can hardly strap on a sword-belt."

"I have no doubt that you can think of something." She weighs the dagger, hand to hand to get a feel for it, then nods decisively.

  
He was not exactly expecting her to start pulling up her skirts right in front of him and with gold dragons dancing before his eyes he stops her.

"That dress you have on is made of Dornish silk," he snaps. "Stop crumpling it." She drops the hem.

"Well, if you want me to keep this on me, then the best place is strapped to my thigh," she say bluntly. "If you don't want me crumpling up my skirts, then I'll lift the skirt clear and you can strap the dagger into place."

"You're not very proper, are you?"

"It's that, or you'll have to get the maid back to take it off then put it back on again," she says bluntly. "Which is it to be?" He growls incoherently, thrusts his hand out for the dagger. She hands it over, then very carefully lifts and holds the silky material away from her legs. He takes a knee, uses her stocking to hold the dagger. He slides it down between skin and silk stocking, careful not to snag. The stockings are held up with garters, and he nods at her.

"Does that feel like it will drag your stocking down?" he enquires. She moves, turns, walks a few paces away and back. She keeps her skirt lifted. He's hard-pressed to do anything but watch the play of the muscle beneath the silk. Even he can see the dagger's too heavy for the fine garter.

"Have you got anything to tie it with?" she enquires. Apparently, she doesn't care that he's been staring at her legs. He reaches into a pocket, finds an old leather time that must have come off a book or a scroll at some point. His hands touch her skin again, finds it warm and soft beneath his fingers as he ties it in place. It's long enough to loop twice, beneath the hilt. He knots it firm, takes his hands off her before he does something stupid like trace the line of her leg down to the bones of her ankle.

"Better?" This time when she walks, the dagger doesn't budge.

"Much," she answers, finally and mercifully dropping her bloody skirts.

"You'll be able to get to it quickly, if you need to?"

"Yes. Can't guarantee I won't crease the Dornish silk."

"If you're going for that dagger, I don't expect you to give a damn about the Dornish silk," he retorts.

"I have nothing to give you as a betrothal gift," she says. He manages to refrain from telling her that showing him her legs probably counts.

"I'm hardly marrying you for your money," he returns drily. "Come, Lady Stark. Let us go and ruffle some feathers."


	9. Chapter 9

They do not merely ruffle feathers. When he reveals her to the Small Council as Arya Stark, it's not just Cersei who nearly has a fit of apoplexy. Arya just sits nicely on the chair he'd pointed to on his right hand, smiling serenely and watching the Council meeting unravel before her eyes. Cersei is ranting on in a voice so shrill he's actually starting to struggle to distinguish it, especially with Pycelle wheezing on and even Varys chipping in. Mace Tyrell isn't happy either but has at least got the sense to keep his bloody mouth shut.

"Marry the little whore -"

"My Lord, perhaps a hasty -"

"Arya Stark -"

"The little slut's responsible for scarring Joffrey for life -"

"Can we be certain of -"

"Wild little bitch even then -"

"May I perhaps say a few words?" Arya herself breaks in. It works like a spell, even Cersei stops screaming to sit with a gaping mouth. "Thank you, I was starting to get an awful headache," she says, sweet as hot sugar. "May I, Lord Tywin?" she queries, turning to him. He nods, indicates the table. "Thank you. Yes, Maester, I assure you I really am Arya Stark. Lord Varys, I'm quite clearly not dead. Ask me any question you like to prove it, if you doubt Lord Tywin's word." Oh, clever, clever girl. "And Your Grace, I did not permanently scar anyone. You'll recall, I'm sure, that that was my direwolf. And she did it because your son was seventeen and threatening a child of ten with a real sword. And I am not a whore. My maidenhead is intact and I will submit to an examination if you doubt your father's word enough to want it checked. I assure you that no man has laid a hand on me - no man would dare, or I'd cut his fucking cock off." He knew she wouldn't be able to keep from swearing. He has to hide his smirk in his water goblet. "Lord Tywin and I have made a mutually beneficial betrothal. You may rest assured, Your Grace, that I will not attempt to be your mother." Cersei turns nearly purple with rage.

"You little -"

"Be careful," Tywin interrupts. "Be very careful indeed how you speak to Lady Arya."

"You intend to replace my mother with this - with this slut?" Cersei splutters.

"Nobody will replace your mother," he snaps at her. "As Lady Stark explained, we have found common enough ground to see that a betrothal is our best interests. However, there is something I'm very curious about. Why was I not informed immediately when she managed to escape this Keep and make her way to Harrenhal?" Cersei stammers.

"We - did not think -"

"Did not think what exactly? I was under the impression you had both Stark girls safe and cared for up until six moons ago, when a guard - a guard - blithely informed me that it was commonly accepted knowledge that Arya Stark was dead, as she had not been seen for years. And as for what has been done to Sansa Stark - well, at what point exactly did you think Robb Stark would be pacified by your happy suggestion that he receive back one battered sister and told the other was gone without trace?" He glares around the table. "Understand this, all of you - as you are all equally complicit - Robb Stark had enough cause to gather an army to him when his father's head was rotting on our walls. When he hears of the treatment of his sisters, what exactly do you imagine that will do for his sympathetic supporters?" He doesn't get an answer, but then he hardly expected one. Arya is grinning down at her lap beside him. "Lady Stark and I will be married three days from hence, in the Great Sept. I assume that among yourselves, you can manage to arrange the wedding feast." He stands, offers Arya his hand to help her up, even though he doubts she needs it. Still, united fronts and all that. She needs no telling, just accepts his hand and stands up, pulling her skirts straight.

  
He bundles her out of there before Cersei can get going again, and once safe, he smiles at her.

"You did that very well, Lady Arya," he tells her. She smiles back.

"I thought so too," she says complacently. "That was the most fun I've had in years. Well, where to next, Lannister?"

"The King," he says decisively. "Best to get it over with."

  
Joffrey's too shocked by the sight of Arya and the news Tywin breaks to do more than sit there gaping like a stranded fish. Arya keeps glaring at him, which Tywin is greatly amused to note makes the boy look distinctly nervous. He'll enjoy watching those two interact, but it's still prudent in his opinion to remove her from there as soon as possible. She stops him in the corridor outside, a clutch of her hand on his arm stopping him.

"I want to tell Sansa this myself," she says. "And I want to tell her privately." He nods.

"Very well."

  
He takes her to the Godswood, as he's informed that that's where Sansa is. He remains outside it, looking out over the gleaming waters of Blackwater Bay, towards where Dragonstone is a mere smudge on the far horizon. He'll hear nothing from out here, and when Arya returns to him, ghostly-pale and with her lips pressed into a hard line, he asks her no questions at all. He can't exactly imagine that she'll be too happy about it. Arya doesn't wait for him, either, just starts down the winding path from what passes as a Godswood. He falls into step beside her, but she does not move to retake his arm and he does not offer it again. They're halfway down before she talks.

"This was her dream, you know," she says abruptly. "To come South, to wear silk and be a happy bride. She used to make Robb and Jon play at Knights and Ladies, playing out the old songs about dashing men rescuing the wronged Princess. But that was before, before either of us knew how cruel men could be." It's another rare insight, another quick slice of honesty. He's determined to take advantage of it.

"And you? What did you dream of, up in the North?"

"I wanted to be a Knight," she answers. "I always wanted to be with the boys, learning to fight with Ser Rodrick. I could outshoot all my brothers by the time we left, I used to sneak away from my Septa to practise it. I always got into trouble, obviously - but it was always worth it." He can imagine it, actually - her hair longer and in a wild tangle, pulling back a bow again and again until she hit the target, then again and again until she hit the bullseye.

"We'll keep your sister safe now," he promises her.

"The shine's gone off this place for her," she answers shortly. "Kindest thing we can do for her is marry her to someone who'll get her the hell out of this city."

"Kindest, not necessarily the wisest. Whoever Sansa marries must be trustworthy. If I am to send her back to Winterfell to rule, I must be able to rely on them understanding the delicacy of the Northern situation."

"Best not to make him a Lannister then," she retorts drily. "That name is blood to them now. Not even Sansa will be able to get you loyalty up there if you make her last name Lannister." He nods.

"You're going to prove invaluable to me," he tells her. "With your mind and my power, we shall be truly formidable."

"You don't trust me, though," she points out.

"Not even remotely," he returns. "Just as you don't trust me."

"Very true," she says. "Well then, I suppose it's time to have this announced?"

"Not at all," he answers. "You have a lot to learn about King's Landing. We informed the Master of Whispers that we are betrothed and that you are alive. By noon, the entire Court will know it."

"Well, that makes things simpler, I suppose." She's silent a moment, then looks up at him.

"Three days before we're married then. You move quickly."

"It's necessary that we move as quickly as possible. You saw Cersei's reaction. Marriage to me means a level of protection that cannot be provided by a guard or a blade."

"I suppose." He gives her a glance.

"You don't sound filled with joy at the prospect."

"I'd marry you this afternoon if necessary," she flashes back. There's a slight pause. "I have some - queries." Well, he hadn't expected that. He looks around, gestures at a bench. They've gained the walkway along the walls by now, and nobody but the guards are nearby.

"Shall we sit? Or would you prefer to go back to my chambers?"

"We'll sit. I've spent enough time locked up in your chambers." They sit, although it takes quite some time to arrange her dress so it doesn't crease too much. She folds her hands in her lap - but he can see her tracing a finger back and forth over the hard hilt of the dagger hidden beneath the black silk. He waves the guards back to a safe distance.

"You may speak," he prompts, when she makes no attempts to do so. "I assure you nobody will hear you up here."

"I don't care if they do."

"You've never been hesitant before," he remarks, when still she does not continue with whatever she wants to say. "If anything, you're remarkably frank."

"I'm thinking," she snaps. "Look, Lannister. I'm not a child. I know probably more than most girls in my position would about what husband and wife might do in the bedchamber - what people might do in the bedchamber, husband and wife or not. I've heard plenty of talk. Seen a few things too, for that matter. But the fact remains that that's all I know - soldier's talk, the talk of whoremongers and rapers, in some cases. I was considered too young by my mother to hear anything on the subject from either her or my Septa." She faces him then, turns her torso to look him in the face. "I want to talk to a woman," she says bluntly. "Not just any woman - a woman who knows what it is to be married. I don't want to go into our wedding night not knowing anything."

"I am fully aware that you're a maiden -"

"This is not about pleasing you," she snaps. Serves him right for having an ego. "You're experienced enough to please yourself. I am not. And I do not want to be left lying there like a wooden doll while you fuck me. I want to know what I'm supposed to do."

"The Faith would argue that you aren't supposed to _do_ anything," he points out drily.

"The Faith can go and fuck themselves," she says flatly. "I've given myself enough pleasure to know I really quite enjoy it." He nearly chokes on his own spit. Gods, she's blunt. She might have been highborn, but all that - if it ever took to her at all - has been scraped off her by years of fighting to survive. She'll never be made to talk in courtly riddles and double-meanings. 

"So you wish for me to pleasure you," he says, finally, keeping her gaze with his own. She doesn't even blush.

"If it's not too much trouble, Lannister," she answers with gentle sarcasm. "That's why I wanted to talk to a woman. Find out what sorts of tricks a man might have to do to a woman, instead of what tricks a woman has to do to a man." He has to wonder what exactly she's heard and seen - and if she'll want to try any of them with him.

"I was under the impression," he says slowly, "that this was a business transaction, nothing more."

"So you weren't planning on getting some pleasure out of me? I was under the impression that you wanted children." She's got a point there. "And it is a transaction, Lannister, don't you worry about that. I have no plans to think of you as anything more than useful to me - a sentiment which I'm quite certain you return. However," she continues, "that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves where we can."

  
She definitely makes a good point. She's quite right, of course - this is business more than it is marriage. They're mutually useful to each other - but why should they not enjoy themselves? It's a rare day when a man of his age finds himself a young wife who is actually willing to go to bed with him. Why should he not take advantage?

"A woman will be of no use," he says abruptly. "None of them will consider it appropriate to tell a maiden what you're asking. You'd be better off talking to a man, a man who has been married before and has experience with - more seemly practises."

"Fine," she says, rather unexpectedly. "Then I'll talk to a man. Who do you suggest?"

"You could just ask me," he drawls. "As I am to be your husband, after all."

"You could have just told me that in the first place," she grumbles. "Tonight then? At dinner?" No. He does not want to have this conversation with her over dinner, with a locked door and the intimacy it brings.

"I shall not be joining you at dinner," he informs her. "I have a great deal to do and will be dining late." He hadn't been planning to do so, of course, but he already knows full well that she can have rather an affect on him - and he thinks he'd probably prefer to have this conversation with her when he can bury himself in work afterwards to wipe it from his mind. "We're both here now - and as alone as it is possible to be. What did you want to know?" He's pleased to note she at least has to take a deep breath. Not as unflappable as she might like to pretend, then.

"I know that - I can use my hands on you. And my mouth too. And I know that there are different - I heard them called positions. That's actually why I started listening to that particular conversation," she says, matter-of-factly. "I thought they might be talking about fighting, and I thought I might learn something. And I did, just not what I was expecting. So I suppose my first question is, can you use hands and mouth on me?"

"Yes," he says, hoping to the Gods he doesn't blush. "Both. I'm told both are very pleasurable. You might be interested to hear that when a man uses his mouth, it's called a Lord's kiss." She gives a very unladylike snort of laughter.

"As opposed to when a woman does it, it's called a blowjob," she says crudely. "Which romantic fool came up with that?"

"The origins of the phrase are uncertain. Was there anything else?"

"Just one, I suppose. Will it hurt?" It's the vulnerability in the question that surprises him the most. "I don't want you to think I'm afraid of the pain," she adds. "I just want to know." It's half the truth, but he chooses not to goad her.

"I will do everything I can to avoid hurting you intentionally," he tells her gravely. "But I cannot guarantee that it will not." She nods.

"Fine," she says, standing up abruptly. "I assume you want to get on with your work?"

"It's more a need than a pressing desire," he answers, rising. He looks down at her. "You need not accompany me," he tells her. "If you wish to reacquaint yourself with the Keep, you may do so. The guards will accompany you, of course - and you should return to our chambers before nightfall."

"Thank you. I assume that in the likely event I get lost, the guards will know the way back? I'd hate you to think I've done another bunk."

"They'll know," he answers drily. He bows to her, because formality demands that he does, and she bobs something that might be a curtsey in return. He leaves her with the guards.

  
He has to wonder if she will try running.


	10. Chapter 10

She does not try to run, and a part of him is slightly surprised. He'd fully expected to come back to his chambers to find her fuming with a couple of injured guards to deal with. Perhaps she's more committed to this than he'd realised. Her bedchamber door is slightly ajar, and he can hear - is she singing in there? He approaches on silent feet, pauses outside to listen.

  
_And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree._

_She spun away and said to him_

_No featherbed for me._

_I'll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass._

_But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass._

  
He doesn't recognise the song but her voice is pretty, in a rough, untrained sort of way. She holds a tune, anyway. He'd never have her down as the type to sing love songs - she's full of surprises, is Arya Stark. He wonders where she'd heard it. What little she'd disclosed about her time on the road had not given him the impression that she'd been stopping to hear love songs. He moves away, drops his sword belt on his desk with a clatter to let her know he's in the room in case she wants to stop singing - or at least not start again, as her song seems to have finished. He half-expects her to come out, but she doesn't, just shuts her door all the way. He doesn't even get a glimpse of her.

  
The maid arrives again the following morning. He half-expects her to come back out in the same dress of black silk, but she doesn't. She's chosen the other, steel-grey. Linen, if he had to guess. It looks more natural on her than the silk did. She smirks when he says so.

"I never was one for pretty things," she replies. "And look on the bright side, Lannister - at least you'll never have to spend your gold on them for me."

"You'll dress as befits my wife," he answers her. "But don't worry - my expectations are not high." She rolls her eyes.

"So, Lannister, what's the plan?"

  
The days seem to fly by. She never leaves their chambers unarmed, and yet seems entirely relaxed about the entire situation. If there was more time before his wedding, perhaps he would have given some nod to propriety by moving her into separate quarters, but it hardly seems worthwhile doing so with so little time before she'd move straight back in again. As he's confident nobody would dare to even suggest that their relationship is improper, and she outright tells him she doesn't care what people may or may not say about her, he keeps her with him. The only time she even acknowledges their wedding is over dinner the night before it.

"I assume you'd prefer I not wear black tomorrow," she remarks.

"Your wedding gown and Stark cloak are being delivered tomorrow morning," he says shortly. "Along with a few other dresses I ordered made for you."

"And I have to be at the Sept at sundown?"

"The guards know all the arrangements. You'll travel by wheelhouse." She nods.

"Very well."

"Are you nervous?" She laughs.

"No. Are you?" He doesn't bother answering, earns himself another laugh. She finishes her meal and pushes her plate away. "Well, I suppose I should go to bed then," she remarks.

"I suppose so," he agrees. "I shall be up early tomorrow," he tells her. "We probably won't see each other."

"Do I need to do anything when the dressmaker comes?"

"No. The guards will pay her."

"Will the wedding dress be obviously a wedding dress?" It draws a smile from him.

"Yes. It'll be the only dress that isn't a dark colour."

"Fine. Goodnight, Lannister."

  
Perhaps it's inevitable that tonight, he dreams of Joanna and the night before their wedding. They hadn't been much older than Arya is now, and he remembered how he'd sneaked into her chambers to reassure her, to promise her he'd be a good husband, to steal a shy and uncertain kiss from the woman he loved even then. Arya would probably laugh herself sick if he even began to contemplated something on that level of romantic. He'd brought Joanna a rose he'd picked himself from the Casterly Rock gardens, and in the Sept the next day, she'd had it woven into her long blonde hair. They'd married for love, he and Joanna and he'd never stopped loving her even after all these years. He has sense enough to know lust is not a betrayal to her memory - but he still wakes up with damp eyes and a jagged, stinging pain in his throat.

  
He's at the Sept promptly, again inwardly wondering if she'll turn up - and if she'll have put the wedding dress on. He wouldn't put it past her to wear black.

  
She hasn't. She's put the wedding dress on, and the Stark cloak. The pale silvery lace over the white underlay looks striking against the black cloak, and even her hair has had some minor miracle performed on it, dressed with some kind of metal combs decorated with flowers to hold it back off her face. She actually looks pretty. She walks across the Sept alone, because there's nobody to escort her or give her away to her new husband. She doesn't seem to care, but she catches her sister's eye at one stage. Sansa is paler than Arya's dress, her lips pressed tightly together. Tywin wonders if she's worked out yet that this was the deal her sister made to save her. She must have. Nobody could believe that this, any of this, was any kind of coincidence. Perhaps it might be worth having a brief chat with Sansa Stark. She's painfully vulnerable - and therefore a risk.

  
Arya has reached him.

"I can hear the wheels in your head turning from the other side of this Sept," she murmurs. "It wouldn't kill you to switch off for a moment." The Septon has started droning on so he can't answer and he considers it too far beneath him to grimace at her. When the moment comes, she says the vows with him flawlessly, proving that she had at least taken learning them seriously after he'd written them out. He takes off her Stark cloak and replaces it with the Lannister crimson. They exchange the kiss - dry, perfunctory and as business-like as their betrothal negotiations - and walk out of the Sept as man and wife. She barely comes up to his chest, but there's neither frailty or fear in the grip on his arm. Her head stays up and her face stays impassive. As a man who prides his self-control as one of his finest points, he admires it in her. There's no indication visible on her face of any feelings she may or may not have. She's absolutely unreadable.

  
The feast goes with a swing and even Tywin can identify Tyrion's stamp on it. The man can throw a party. If anyone thinks anything of the new Lady Lannister's table manners, nobody dares to mention them. She at least refrains from eating by spearing her food on her knife so really, he counts as a victory. The wine flows, and if the Lannister family atmosphere is distinctly chilly, the rest of the guests make up for it. Joffrey eventually drinks enough to either forget or stop caring about his fear of Arya, and weaves an unsteady path towards the High Table where he and Arya still sit together in cordial silence. He had half-heartedly offered her a dance but she'd just shaken her head.

"I was never much of a dancer - and I can barely walk in this dress. I'd hate to try and dance in it." Fine by him. He watches Joffrey approach, mentally braces. A tiny smile is forming in the corners of Arya's mouth.

"Grandfather!" Joffrey shouts, loud enough to attract half the Hall. "Will you and your bride not dance?"

"No," Tywin says, as oppresively as he can. It does not deter Joffrey.

"Then perhaps I might have the honour?" Arya's left eyebrow raises.

"I fear I'm not deserving," she says smoothly. "And that I've drunk too much wine to be a suitable partner." He's surprised she doesn't choke on the courtesy.

"Nonsense! I insist on you joining me for a dance."

"I'd rather stab myself in the heart than dance with you," she says, still smiling. What the hell is she doing? Joffrey's face turns ugly.

"Then perhaps we ought to proceed with the bedding!" he shouts. Tywin's heart sinks. How, how could he have forgotten the bloody bedding?

"Yes, the bedding!"

"The bedding!" The cry goes up all over the Hall, and Arya rises slowly to her feet - and quick as lightening, beams.

"Certainly!" she cries. "The bedding, if it is what my Lords desire." The meat knife spins and flashes in her hand. "Who'd like to be first to have their hands cut off?" An uncertain laugh rings out. "I'll even make if fair," she says, still smiling. "I'll keep the knife. If you can take off my clothes without me seeing who did it, then you get to keep both your hands." Joffrey, he notices, has gone very, very pale.

"I'll take that challenge!" a man roars.

"And I!" The acceptance goes up all over the Hall, and she turns to him to curtsey.

"My Lord," she says sweetly.

  
By the time he gets up there - escorted by infuriating giggles - she's sitting on the desk, still fully dressed and whistling as she tosses the meat knife from hand to hand. At least there isn't any blood on it. He raises his eyebrows.

"None of them were quick enough," she says, when he slams the door in the giggling faces of the women.

"Is anyone missing any fingers?" he asks, tossing his doublet onto the chair.

"Nobody's missing anything except their pride." She raises her eyebrows at him - and drops the meat knife onto the desk with a clatter. "Well then, Lannister - your bed or mine?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be advised that this chapter features a young women losing her virginity (in a consensual setting) to a much older man.

They go to his room.

  
She doesn't seem nervous or upset or scared. The lacing of her dress goes down the back, and she turns to present herself to him.

"Can you unlace me?" He steps up behind her, finds where the ties of the laces have been tucked in. He pulls them out, starts to unpick the knot. Once it's free, he starts loosening, working his way methodically, slowly. With her back safely to him, he feels safe enough to talk about what is going to happen.

"Are you afraid?" he asks.

"Not afraid," she says, slowly. "I'd say more - curious."

"Curious?"

"Yes, curious. You've seen me naked, after all. I can't help wondering what you're hiding under all those layers." He can't help the smile.

"You'll know soon enough." He loosens a few more crosses of the lacing on her bodice. "You looked beautiful today," he informs her. She snorts.

"First time for everything," she snipes. "Tell me, Lannister - did you like what you saw when you barged into my room that day to find me naked?" His fingers don't stutter on the laces, but it's a damn near thing.

"I never apologised for that," he says gravely, tugging the last lace loose and stepping back. "You would have been within your rights to be furiously angry." She shrugs, starts pulling and wriggling her way out of the dress.

"It's not like you knew I was naked in there - although it wouldn't hurt you to learn to knock occasionally. And besides, if it had bothered me, I could have told you to get the fuck out."

"You didn't though." He can still see her in his minds eye too - long, toned legs, pale stomach, breasts tipped with the prettiest petal-pink nipples - "I must admit that I have wondered why not." She shrugs, steps out of the dress, hangs it carefully over the back of his desk chair. The shift they've put her in is damn near translucent.

"I was testing a theory," she answers. He raises his eyebrows.

"A theory."

"About you," she elaborates, taking a seat on the same chair she's just hung the dress over. She gathers up her shift to her waist, and he sees the glint of the dagger's hilt. So she wore it after all. Her fingers are tugging at the knot of the leather tie. "I wanted to see if that control everyone always talks about is as unflappable as everyone says."

"And what did you learn?" he enquires, pulling his shirt over his head.

"That it is. Most men would have tried it on. You did not. And that was the moment I thought - if he can keep me safe even from himself, then he can keep me safe from everything else." He gapes at her. "And it was the first time anyone had looked at me like I was attractive."

"You are attractive," he points out bluntly, pulling back the bedcovers before he removes breeches and smallclothes to leave himself naked. It's the point where he expects her to flinch, to show some signs of nervousness. There isn't even a flicker. She places the dagger on the table, pulls her stockings off and stands, shift falling to cover her legs whilst her hands go to the laces that run from chest to belly. He pulls the covers to his waist, leaves his chest bare.

"Attractive, you say," she says slowly, starting to unlace. He watches, because after all she'd specified this - he's to look at her when they fuck. "Seriously, Lannister?"

"Seriously," he says. The laces are undone, she pulls her arms free of the sleeves, pushes it down to leave her standing in nothing but her smallclothes under his gaze.

  
He looks his fill and she doesn't move, just stands there, breathing easy and half a smile tugging at her lips.

"Enjoying the view, Lannister?"

"Very much so. No you don't," he warns, as her fingers go to the laces of her smallclothes. "I'll do that." He twitches the covers back, leaves the opposite side of the bed for her to get into. "Get into bed, Stark." She comes over, climbs into bed beside him, the firelight playing along the lines of the muscle in her legs.

"This is where my knowledge ends," she tells him. "What do I do?"

"Come here," he says, leaning back against the pillows. "Straddle my waist." She does it in one fluid motion, but he has to grab her waist so she doesn't settle all her weight in one go.

"Gently," he says.

"Shouldn't that be my line?" she says drily.

"The wetter you are," he tells her, sliding his hands from waist the breasts, dancing his fingers very lightly over the swells of them, those tempting pink nipples pebbling slightly under the attention, "the easier this will be."

"I assume you mean -"

"Yes," he says, when her voice trails off when he cups her breasts properly. I was right, he thinks hazily. They do fill my hands. "Your cunt."

"Harder," her voice says. He drags his eyes from breasts to face, catches a hot gaze. Her own hands cover his, tighten his fingers. Just as I dreamed. "You'll need to - yes, like that," she says, when he flexes his hands, tightening his grip.

  
She's a ball of contradictions. Half virginal unknowing trust, half a knowledgeable woman. He's hard under her, and she shifts experimentally over it, just gently, just a little. A tiny gasp escapes her.

"Can I do this?" she asks, her hips moving again.

"Yes," he answers, because why the hell would he say no? He keeps her hands on her breasts. Between the warmth of the softest skin he's ever filled his hands with, the feel of her wriggling in his lap, he's half-blind with lust. He pinches a nipple firmly between his fingers, earns himself another smothered noise. She's gritting her teeth, he realises, glancing up at her. Her cheeks have spots of pink in them, but she's keeping her noises in as much as she can.

  
A sudden, powerful desire to make her scream so loudly the entire Keep hears her seizes him, and he thrusts up beneath her. He lets go of her breasts, drops his hands to tug at the laces of her smallclothes. She doesn't stop him, raises herself on her knees to let him undo and then yank away her smallclothes. When she settles again, another tiny gasp leaves her lips. He grunts himself. He can feel the dampness starting to gather. He wants to look.

  
He flips them, puts her on her back - and gets his first taste of Braavosi-trained reflexes. Her hands are locked around his throat, eyes fiery - then clearing as her brain catches up. Her fingers unlock.

"Bloody hell, woman," he says. Admiration floods him. "You were serious, weren't you, about castrating a husband?"

"He wouldn't have even seen me move," she replies and Tywin thinks that the fact that his erection does not flag even one bit says something rather disturbing about him. "But don't you fret, Lannister - my blade is on the table over there. You just took me by surprise."

  
He fits his fingers beneath her chin, tilts her head back on the pillows.

"I want to hear you," he says, calmly. "Don't you smother your noises." He retreats down the bed, pausing to suck briefly on those tempting pink peaks of her breasts, earns himself another tiny, smothered gasp when he chances it and nips gently. When he spreads her apart, he's faced by an equally-pink, equally pretty cunt, dark curls a fascinating contrast to the colour. She props herself on her elbows.

"What are you -" He cuts her off by sliding a finger gently down her lips, finds her wet but not wet enough. He teases gently, then firmer when she presses her hips down with a whine. A very quiet whine.

  
He licks her once the wetness is at such a point he's sliding rather than dragging his fingers over her apparently very sensitive cunt. She gives a much louder gasp once his mouth gets to work. That's it, he thinks triumphantly. Come apart. She's trembling like a leaf, her fingers locked into the sheets, her thighs shaking as he holds them apart. He slides a finger into scorching heat and near gasps himself at how tight she is. She contracts around him, whimpers aloud and starts squirming under him as she starts rocking her hips down.

"More," she gasps. "More." He nips her thigh in response, redoubles his efforts. He's got two fingers buried in her heat, her gasps are getting louder, her hips are moving freely. He presses his free hand to her belly.

"Stay still, my Lady," he orders. "Stay still."

"Fuck you, fuck me, more, more," she orders. He grins triumphant - but does not oblige, not at once. He wants to make her come first.

  
It's not difficult, this first time. She knows her body enough to know how it feels to peak, to chase it but not fight it and yet she's inexperienced enough for him to be able to surprise her. When she comes, it's with a groan of pleasure, a long drawn-out sound of satisfaction. Not the screams he'd hoped for, but pleasure nonetheless.

  
He wastes no time. He works his cock a few times with his wet hand, revives his erection to full and pushes her knees apart.

"Do it quickly," she orders.

  
He can't. Even having been opened on his fingers and wet from her peak, it takes several pushes. She's tight, impossibly, virginal tight and he groans.

"Fuck," she says. Her nails dig into his forearms, braced beside her body. "Fuck. Stop." There's sweat on her forehead.

"I -"

"Don't talk. Don't fucking talk." She's tense beneath him, so tense her body is rigid and he can feel her shaking.

"Lift your legs," he tells her, his teeth gritted. His control is there by a thread. "And try to relax." She breathes. Her face is screwed up, her eyes shut firmly. He didn't expect it to be this hard for her.

  
He almost feels guilty.

  
Slowly, slowly, in long shakes, her body uncoils and relaxes. She moves under him, raising her hips and hooking her knees around his waist. Her eyes open.

"Alright. Move."

  
It's over quickly, at least. She's so tight, it's been so long for him, and she's so obviously uncomfortable that he gets it over with. He spends inside her with a groan, rolls off her at once to pull the covers over them. She grunts in discomfort as she moves and he feels - not necessarily guilt, she knew this was a possibility and he had told her - uneasy.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"Don't be," she retorts. "Do I sleep here tonight or go back to my room?"

"Here tonight," he tells her, recognising the shuttering of her face indicating that she has closed the subject. "They'll need proof we consummated. We'll set out nights you'll spend in my bed in on the morrow."

"Fine," she says shortly. "Goodnight then." She rolls onto her side and for a moment she seems to have immediately gone to sleep. He's wondering if he should reach out to hold her when she talks. "I want to see my sister tomorrow. Alone."

"Very well."

  
He sleeps, at least, but she never moves an inch all night. When he wakes up at dawn, she's still in exactly the same position beside him, back turned on him and unmoving. He rises quietly, but almost as soon as he sits up she's moving too. He doesn't miss that she reaches momentarily for a blade that isn't there, but passes no comment.

"It's still early, my Lady," he says quietly. "You don't need to get up."

"I rise early," she answers, voice impassive. She pulls on the shift she discarded last night, finds her smallclothes and drapes her wedding dress carefully over her arm. "You can have a bath sent into me," she says, already leaving before he can ask her if she is well.

  
His squire brings him water and he gives the instructions to the maids for the bath when they come to change the sheets. It's then he sees the stain, the small blotch of blood that she wasn't sure would show. But it's done, the maids will report it to whoever pays them for information and not a single soul will be able to question the validity of his second marriage.

  
Married again, and after all this time. He never supposed any circumstance would induce this, least of all to a maid of sixteen. But wild or not, the new Lady Lannister is a woman new-married and he has no reason to be cruel.

"Have breakfast for myself and my wife brought up," he instructs his squire. "And see what you can find for her by way of a maid."

  
She joins him after her bath and he eyes the breeches with resignation.

"Look at them with disdain all you want, but I can't put those dresses on unaided," she tells him bluntly.

"I know," he answers. "Once your full wardrobe is here, it will include dresses you can put on without help. And I'm having a maid found for you." She takes porridge and fruit for her meal, and he watches her closely for any signs of discomfort but either she is an exceptional actress or she is not in pain. He would be inclined to assume the former but she's obviously not going to talk about it so he changes the subject. "You're free to walk the Keep and the gardens now," he tells her. "The need for secrecy is passed and besides which you are Lady Lannister now."

"Fine."

"You will wear a dress."

"Whatever."

"You can have your midday meal here, or instruct my squire or your maid - when she is chosen and arrives - to have it served in the gardens if you prefer."

"Alright."

"We will take supper here unless we eat with the Court, an event I will inform you of."

"Right."

"I think you'll prefer life now." She snorts then, looks up at him finally with blazing eyes.

"Ah yes, for the three days I expect it will take before I start killing people out of sheer boredom," she snaps. "What you have just described sounds like a fucking nightmare. I am not a Lady content to pick flowers and walk around gossiping all my days, Lannister. And you swore I could continue my training."

"You will. I'm arranging for a sword master for you today. And I think you perhaps have misunderstood me. When I say you are free to walk the Keep and the gardens, I mean precisely that - you are free to do as you please. You may read any book in the Keep Library you desire. You may have them bring you books here. You may order paper, pens and ink. You may go riding. You may, provided you take guards and inform me, go into the city. You may train each day if it will please you. You may spend as much time with your sister as you like. I can leave you at her rooms on my way to Council." She stares at him. "You are now the wealthiest Lady in the Seven Kingdoms," he says bluntly. "You can quite literally do whatever you please."

"As long as I'm back for supper," she finishes. It draws a brief twitch of his lips.

"As long as you are back for supper," he agrees. "So, Lady Lannister, what would you like to do today?"

"You can leave me at Sansa's rooms," she answers. "We'll go from there."

  
He finds a spare maid to dress her, and by the time he is ready to go she is neatly attired in a dark green dress with her hair brushed to neat order. She's going to have to grow it, obviously.

  
Still, there's no sense in starting a fight just yet. He leaves her at Sansa's rooms with a bow and a curt "my Lady," and gets a stiff curtsey and a "my Lord" in return. He continues on his way, leaving a guard with her. He was not lying when he told her she was free to please herself now. He simply neglected to mention that she would be under constant guard whilst she did it.

  
He muses on his bride whilst he goes about his business that day. He knows only too well that sooner or later, a break will come, that his wild new wife will become dissatisfied with her life and routine and will strike out against it.

  
He is curious as to how and when.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies that it's just one!
> 
> I'm trying to edit ch12 but I'm not happy with it yet. I just wanted to gift you all this one :)


	12. Chapter 12

It takes longer than he thinks, in the end. He'd imagined she'd be threatening death within a week but in the end, it's nearly three full moons after his marriage that he's alerted to a problem. She shares his bed once a week and after that disastrous consummation, they've begun to find something of a rhythm together. They eat together each night, have vague conversation about various light topics that don't prod any sore spots for either of them. She wears her dresses without complaint or comment. As agreed, she trains with a Lannister sword master two mornings per week in a private room within the Keep.

  
He knew it would never last.

  
His man informs him that his new wife has beaten the seven hells out of her personal guard and has managed in the furore following it to bolt. They had been in the Keep at least, and he's alerted so rapidly that he manages to get the place shut down too quickly for her to actually escape.

"There's no need to search for her," he says coolly, once he's ascertained that she has taken nothing but what she had on. Her boy's things are still in her bedchamber and her guard manages to mumble through his impressively swollen face that she had no money with her. "I don't think she's attempting to escape."

  
She comes back.

  
Her dress is dusty, her face scratched, her hair absolutely wild, but she comes back. Her knuckles are bloody and bruised. There's a heat in her eyes he can't name but he's so angry himself that he dismisses it.

"Sit down," he commands, rage colouring his voice. He's never met a single person who didn't cringe at that voice being directed at them. She doesn't even break stride.

"Fuck you," she says calmly, walking into her room and slamming the door between them. He's so shocked by her calm it takes him a moment to react but he wastes no time once he's got his breath back.

  
He throws her door open so hard it slams against the wall. She does not even turn from her balcony.

"You have some explaining to do," he snarls, striding towards her. "You have assaulted one of my guards and publically embarrassed me. If you think this will pass unpunished -"

"Punished?" she shouts, rounding on him at once. She has never, ever raised her voice. " _Punished_? What can you do to punish me? Have me whipped? Lock me up? Have at it, you arrogant cunt! I assure you, I'm not afraid of pain."

"What is wrong with you?" he demands, taking her by the arms.

"Get your hands off me!" she shouts, shoving him backwards. "Gods. I should have slit your fucking throat at Harrenhal and run. I should have poisoned you and fled. I should have made a run for it the day you arrived." She's got her hand raised to strike him and on simple reflex he grabs her arm and spins her, using height and weight to trap her against his body, holding her so tightly that all the aggression she can show him is scratching at his arm and trying to stamp her feet. She struggles like a shadowcat in a trap but he just squeezes tighter.

"Stop," he hisses in her ear. "Stop this now."

  
She fights a little longer, cursing more and more wildly until suddenly and quite sharply, she just - goes limp. He's not stupid enough to let her go, so he keeps her tight and close against him, her small frame feeling suddenly fragile against him.

"What has happened?" he asks. "Tell me."

"You wouldn't understand even if I did tell you," she answers, but there's no fight in it whatsoever. "Just - just leave me alone."

"No. If someone has upset you -"

"Gods, Tywin, how soft do you think I am?" she snaps, squirming again. He just tightens his grip once more, pulls her tighter against him. "Don't be thick, it doesn't suit you."

"Then tell me what _has_ upset you. Why this, why today?"

"I'm _tired_ , Tywin," she answers. "I am so godsdamned _tired_. I do the same thing, day after day after day and once a week I go to bed with you and spread my legs, like even _that_ has to have a schedule. We don't even _talk_ any more. Before we married, we'd sit at the desk or the table and argue about the wars, the King, your children. You were the first man who fucking _listened_ to me, and I knew, I _knew_ that this shit would happen. I knew that the second we got married you'd discard every damn opinion I had and start trying to shove me into that _Lady of the Keep_ bullshit. I told you, I warned you extensively that I'm not cut out for this and I was stupid enough to believe you when you said it wouldn't be like that for me!" She's breathing hard once she finishes, her entire body feels like it's gasping in his arms. "It was beat the daylights out of your guard or try and make a run for it," she adds.

"You swore -"

"I swore I'd try," she interrupts brutally. "And I have, Tywin. But _you_ swore you wouldn't treat me like some delicate fucking flower and that you would consider my opinions. You aren't doing it." She squirms again - is she deliberately pressing herself backwards? "Where did all that famous fire go, my Lord?" she mocks.

"If I have offended you or mistreated you -" She laughs at that, a high, mocking laugh.

"Fuck off. You haven't done anything either offensive or - or un-lordly or whatever. Don't you understand that that is the fucking problem? I need - I need you to forget that you're a great _Lord_ and that you _should_ be acting a certain way. I need you to get angry with me Godsdamnit, I need you to behave like you did before we got fucking married, I need you to drop these ridiculous fucking schedules!"

"And I need _you_ to understand you've embarrassed me!" he snaps. "Whether you like it or not I _am_ a great Lord and you the most powerful Lady of the Seven godsdamned Kingdoms! A certain standard is expected -"

"Out there! Out there, but not in here! Gods, let go of me -" She's going for her blade, he realises, he's got her by the upper arms and she's yanking up her skirts.

  
He seizes her wrist, crushes her hand against her leg and grips it tight.

"Are you going to kill me?" he snarls at her. "Will you stab out my eyes then slit my throat? I'm not Meryn Trant."

"Give me a fucking reason," she hisses. "Give me a reason not to." She starts struggling again and to his genuine surprise, he's struggling to hold her, she's struggling like she's fighting for her life. He uses brute force to wrestle her hand away from the blade at her thigh, ends up forcing her to bend, traps her between his body and the stone balustrade.

  
It's the groan that stops him. The groan and the fact that she is absolutely definitely pressing back against him.

  
His hands are pulling up her skirts before he can stop himself, yanking her smallclothes down with a ripping sound. When he plunges two fingers into her, he finds her wet and hot, her back arching and a growl ripping from her as she presses her hips back towards him.

"Yes," she hisses. "Come on, Lannister -" She's trying to rise and on instinct he pushes her back, holds her in place with a firm hand on the back of her neck. He undoes his breeches one-handed, pushes them down enough to free his cock and plunge himself inside her. She howls at it, her pleasure soaking every note of it. He has her hard and fast there against the balustrade, the dagger's hilt scraping the stone, her skirts shoved up around her hips like a common whore.

"Touch yourself," he snarls into her ear, pressing his full weight against her. "Touch yourself, let me feel you peak like this, on my cock like a street whore -" She manages to twist her head free, bites down on his hand as he slams it into the stone work next to her - but she's not biting to draw blood, or even to hurt. He can feel her fingers at her cunt already. Consumed by lust and anger, he bends forward to bite her neck in retaliation, determined to leave some mark. She peaks as he bites, grunting like an animal as she tightens wet around him. He spends himself inside her, pulls himself away panting. She stands up straight at once, kicking off her ruined smallclothes before she lets her skirts fall.

"Get what you wanted?" he asks as he puts his clothes back to rights. She shrugs, turns away from him again. Furious that she managed to draw such a reaction from him, at his own loss of control, he leaves her there.

  
It's only once he's sitting at his desk that he realises that by leaving, she more than likely got exactly what she wanted - a reaction, an undignified, unlordly reaction.

  
Supper is quiet, constrained. As she does in the evenings, she's changed back into her breeches, a shirt he thinks is his - where did she get it? - but she's calmer, noticeably so. Her bruised knuckles look less out of place when she's dressed like this.

"Tell me what happened today," he says quietly, when the plates have been emptied and she's playing idly with her fork. Flicker. A deep breath.

"Nothing." She is lying. She must be.

"Something must have -"

"No, I mean, _nothing_ happened," she interrupts, but there's still that flicker in her eyes. He's certain she's lying. "Literally nothing. I walked in the gardens with Sansa. I prayed in the shit excuse for a Godswood with Sansa. I had lunch in the gardens with Sansa. And I just couldn't breathe, I just couldn't bear it for a single second more. I can't live like this Tywin, I'm sorry. I tried, but I can't."

"Then we need to find something for you to do. I cannot have my wife behaving like a back-alley whore and fighting."

"And there was me thinking you liked that," she parries back.

"Careful," he growls warningly. "What we might do inside these rooms is one thing. But outside that door, you are required to act a certain way."

"Then give me something to do in here that makes it worth my while," she answers, her voice deadly. "I don't care what it is - reading your letters, helping you choose my sister a decent man, even just talking to me about something with some depth, but give me something."

"Or what?" he asks, as calmly as he can.

"Or next time, I won't come back," she answers coldly. "And you won't see me again."

  
She's walking back to her own bedchamber when she stops, turns.

"You asked me why today." He looks up from the fire.

"I did." She takes in a very, very deep breath. There's something - something like rage on her face.

"I'm pregnant," she says quietly.

  
The silence screams between them. It's broken when she turns her back, goes into her room - and locks the door behind herself. He is left to clench his fists and fight down the rising shout of her name, the order for her to return immediately.

  
He is going to be a father again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking hell, fuck depression, fuck 2020, fuck covid, fuck the government.
> 
> Still, I'm better again and MERRY CHRISTMAS.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience!


End file.
